


Saw You On The Telly (He's Getting In The Way!)

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Background Mystrade, Eventual Romance, Idiots in Love, M/M, Protective John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Vigilante!John, eventaul smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes finds himself being assisted by a mysterious gunman. Baddies are dropping dead before they can get their hands on him. It's bloody annoying.</p><p>John is back from Afghanistan and bored out of his mind. Until, that is, he sees a brilliant detective on the news. The detective turns out to be putting himself in quite a bit of danger and John won't stand for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Make Him Disappear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



The first time it happened interrupted what was honestly the most interesting week of Sherlock's year. Not only had Lestrade broken down and asked for help on the serial suicide (ha!) case, but the text Sherlock had sent out to the horrendously pink woman's phone had led to a blip on a screen and then a short cab ride with a lunatic. 

Said lunatic turned out to be less exciting than originally thought, but that wasn't the point. The point was that someone was pulling his strings. That someone was currently unnamed but Sherlock intended to change that as well as play this little game of supposed chance in the mean time. 

Two puzzles in one night, not counting the bit with the fake gun because, please, a fake gun? Really? It truly was Christmas.

Sherlock was holding the bottle in his hand, peering at the man in front of him with disdain tempered by curiosity. He was right, after all, life was tedious. The two pills rattled in the jar as he studied them.

"And-" he began.

A shot rang out and Sherlock looked over his shoulder and out the window as Hope fell to the floor. There was no one to be seen where the bullet came from, the light outside obscuring the view and the killer, now that was interesting, had vanished. Sherlock turned back around to use Hope's imminent death to his advantage.

Across the way a man hid his gun in his jacket and ran from the building and into the night.

_____

The second time it happened Sherlock was being choked, not nearly to death, but still, by a member of the Lotus gang in a flat next to a small souvenir shop. He thought briefly how pleased he was, chokehold not withstanding, that he'd got it right. As his vision dimmed he saw a figure move closer and hit his assailant on the head with a paperweight. 

His eyes fluttered closed as a hand came to brush over his cheek. The man loomed for a moment, waiting to be certain Sherlock wasn't in any danger of not waking up before leaving the way he had come, taking his cane from beside the window and hopping to the ground below.

_____

The night had started well enough, the Chinese circus being the perfect front for the Lotus gang and not a bad show in the least, but the ending was not as Sherlock would have intended. He'd spent nearly an hour decoding the mysterious yellow spray paint left across town and had managed to get some of his homeless network to find more information about the smugglers. 

That was about the time he was knocked over the head and hauled across town to be tied to a chair and threatened by the leader of the group and a few henchmen. No matter how useless it was to ask him about the missing antique, and no matter how dramatically he rolled his eyes, the bastards wouldn't give it up.

He managed to get free of the rope tying him to the chair just as the last of the sand dropped onto the metal plate, launching the projectile right at the chair. The next thing to drop was the woman in charge of the Lotus gang. Then the others. It was really quite idiotic of the vigilante to shoot a gun in that small a space.

"It's really idiotic of you to shoot a gun in this small a space." Sherlock shouted as he stood and brushed the dirt from his suit. "The ricochet could have injured or even killed me."

"I'm a better aim than that, Mr Holmes!" a man's voice said from the shadows.

"I don't recall asking for backup." Sherlock replied, squinting and moving towards the voice in an attempt to see the man.

"That's because I didn't offer." the man replied.

Sherlock took off running towards the end of the tunnel, making it just in time to see the back of a blond head and the glint of a gun in the night.

_____

"I don't know you'd like me to do." Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair and speaking with a sense of boredom.

"Stop him!" Sherlock replied, pacing in an agitated manner and growling. "Do what you do best; make him disappear!"

Mycroft let out a long suffering sigh and rested his elbows on his desk, a sign he was exhausted and quite done with the conversation. "So what you're asking of me, brother dear, is to stop someone from protecting you? I really don't see how that would be to either of our benefits."

"He's getting in the way!" Sherlock hissed.

"In the way of certain doom. How very awful for you." Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes.

"I'm serious!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his fist on the desk and seething.

"As am I, Sherlock. Now, I have work to do. You know the way out."

Sherlock huffed a huge sigh, puffing his chest out like a sparrow, and strode from the room without a look back. His brother would regret this, he'd make sure of it. He'd go to Lestrade. Mycroft's secret boyfriend would have to deal with it.

_____

Lestrade was nearly obscured by paperwork, the stacks so high Sherlock barely saw him as he walked in.

"Whatever it is, I can't help you." he said as Sherlock closed the door with a bit more force than truly necessary.

"The vigilante is back. He killed again." Sherlock said in an ominous tone.

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and set down the papers he was flipping through and finally looked Sherlock in the eye. "Where, when?" he asked flatly.

"Last night. In the abandoned tunnel below-" Sherlock began quickly.

"Last bloody night? When the hell were you going to tell me? Jesus, is the body still there?" Lestrade asked as he stood to slip into his jacket.

"Yes, the bodies are still there. That's not important! The man is still on the loose!" Sherlock said loudly enough to get Sally to come into the room.

"What did he do now?" she asked as she rested against the now open doorway with her arms crossed.

"Oh, do shut up." Sherlock hissed.

She literally stuck her nose up at that and stomped from the room.

"Come with me." Lestrade said, taking Sherlock by the elbow. "You're going to explain this on the way."

_____

you should publish your cases more often. -anonymous 

 

Sherlock was staring at the screen of his laptop for the fourth time since the comment had come in. He didn't even know people could comment on his blog.

"You really ought to find a flat mate, dearie. You can't be up here alone all the time. It's not good for the spirit." Mrs Hudson said as she cleaned the table in front of Sherlock's chair.

"Leave me alone." Sherlock drawled.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, walking around to the chair back and looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "Oh! A comment! Looks like you've got an admirer!"

Sherlock grumbled, slammed the laptop closed and curled into a ball. Mrs Hudson tisked and patted him on the shoulder before walking out the door.

_____

saw you on the telly. -anonymous 

when will you write up the case you just solved? -anonymous 

you've got to stop putting yourself in so much danger. -anonymous 

Sherlock was truly and utterly pissed off. Peeved. Incensed. How dare this anonymous, and yes, he bloody knew it was the vigilante, thank you very fucking much, comment on his blog and tell him what to do? He had no right! Sherlock was starting to think this was all his brother's fault. He had the money to hire someone and the resources to find a worthy candidate. Sherlock looked up to the second shelf down on his bookcase and glared right through the camera to his brother.

"I'd better not find out this is you, Mycroft!" he hollered.

Across town Mycroft turned the volume down on the mic and shook his head.

_____

An hour after the next really interesting case, and the baddie getting shot right before Sherlock could get information, the detective slammed his front door open and grabbed his laptop from his desk. He opened it to his blog and found a new comment, as he had expected.

I worry about you. That was needlessly dangerous. -anonymous 

Sherlock typed out a reply and slammed the laptop lid. It read as transcribed below.

How are you feeling? I assume taking a life must put a certain amount of strain on a person's mental wellbeing.-SH

He opened the laptop again after pacing a few moments and edited it.

Why do you care?-SH


	2. Unreliable Witnesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much, just...so, so much.

because you're brilliant and the world needs more people like you.-anonymous 

and stop being such an arse.-anonymous 

Sherlock closed his laptop after reading the notes again, intent on letting the stranger stew. He really hadn't the time anyhow, as he was about to go undercover proper for the first time that year. He breathed a sigh of relief, sure that this time he could take the perpetrator out himself as Lestrade was going with him, lord knows that man was too slow. Probably from all the time he spent with Mycroft. Banish the thought.

There was a rap at the door and Sherlock opened it to a bloodshot eyed, cigarette smoking DI.

"Has my brother locked you out of the bedroom again?" Sherlock teased as he slipped into his greatcoat and followed Leatrade down the stairs.

"Really not a good time to start in on me, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed.

"I thought you'd quit," Sherlock said as he slipped into the rental sedan and pulled on his seatbelt (no matter what that arsehole vigilante thought, he wasn't reckless).

"It's been a tough week," Lestrade replied, sticking the keys in the ignition and starting them on their way.

"Can I bum one?" Sherlock asked, he had to try.

Lestrade laughed sharply and drew from the lit stick. "No bloody way. Your brother would castrate me."

Sherlock shrugged and looked out the window at the passing cityscape. He tried to covertly breathe in some of the smoke by rolling his window down a bit but Lestrade rolled it back up with a huff.

"Idiot," he whispered.

"I heard that," Lestrade replied.

"Whatever," Sherlock drawled, "just get us there."

_____

Lestrade was standing over the dead body yelling through his walkie at someone while Sherlock sat on the back of an ambulance waiting to get a cut on his forehead looked at.

"I don't care how long it takes, we have to find him!" Lestrade shouted, sticking the walkie back on his belt and grimacing up at Sherlock.

"So now that he's interfering with YOUR work he's a priority, is that it?" Sherlock snarled.

"Don't start," Lestrade replied, "He saved your life and you know it."

Sherlock sniffed petulantly and averted his gaze, "I had it perfectly handled."

"I'd beg to differ," a man from beside him said.

The voice was eerily familiar and Sherlock squinted at the man as he stepped forward and drew a cloth damp with iodine over the cut across Sherlock's left eyebrow.

"This might scar," The man said, brushing a thumb across Sherlock's cheek, something that made the taller man draw in a deep breath, before taking off the butterfly closures he'd previously put on and getting ready to stitch him up.

"Scars wouldn't bother you though...doctor, would they. Not this one at least, yours is much worse," Sherlock said while refusing to look away from the man's face.

"I think you have me confused with someone else. I'm only a medic," the man said, hoping Sherlock didn't catch the clench of his jaw.

Sherlock caught it and smiled (well, on the right track, then).

"Don't sell yourself short. You still have your license, this job just affords you the excitement you need to keep your psychosomatic limp in check. Tell me, how is the therapy going?" Sherlock nearly purred.

To the man's credit he didn't give one faulty stitch as the whole diatribe was going. To Lestrade's credit he saw it as his cue to leave.

"Yeah, well, you two...do whatever you're doing," he said as he walked away with a confused smile.

"How did you know I was a doctor?" the man asked as he finished the stitches and trimmed away the thread.

"The same way I know you were in the military and have a therapist. I observe everything and then I deduce the answer," Sherlock said, sitting back and crossing his arms as the doctor checked his eyes for sign of concussion.

"Everything, huh? What's my name then?" the man prodded.

"Mmm. Something simple and overused. Two, no, one syllable. Your parents weren't very creative. Nick or something of the sort...no? Then Jack? Ah, closer. John," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Brilliant," the man said as he sat next to Sherlock on the back of the ambulance, "I gave it all away?"

Sherlock looked confused for a second before giving a rough facsimile of a smug smile, "yes, you did."

"Christ, you really are a genius," John said as he put his things away.

'Of previously known, or at least suspected data. He knows who I am. Interesting', Sherlock thought.

"Your shift, does it end soon?" Sherlock asked.

A smile passed over John's face, a smile he neatly tucked away before he turned, and cleared his throat.

"Twenty minutes, but I'm guessing you knew that," he said.

"I should be done with giving my statement by then. Tell me, John," Sherlock said with a rare honest smile, "are you hungry?"

_____

Sherlock waited outside the Chinese restaurant down the street from his flat twenty minutes later, looking at his mobile and wondering at the fact that he was nervous, actually nervous, that John wouldn't show up. He hadn't been nervous in years. Nervousness was something saved for lesser people, just like sentiment.

He took a deep breath as he saw John getting from the cab and took a step forward. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, not sure if they should shake or do that strange shoulder punching thing he'd seen younger men do, and decided on sticking his hands in his pockets.

"John," he said with a small smile.

"Still can't believe you knew my name. Well, figured it out. Really, amazing," John replied as they moved to the front door of the restaurant and Sherlock opened it for him.

"You know, you do that out loud," Sherlock replied as he nodded to the waitress and they were seated.

"Oh, sorry," John said, a bit rebuffed.

"No, it's...it's fine," Sherlock replied quietly.

John smiled and took a seat across from him, resting his cane against the booth and looking around. He didn't want to look Sherlock in the eyes, convinced that if he did he'd be seen for who he really was, a fanatic. He supposed it was just fate that got them together, no matter how much he may have pushed its hand.

"So, you get in scrapes like this all the time?"John asked, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock looked at him. There was something there in his eyes but he couldn't place it. Was it that he didn't really want to know? He couldn't tell at that point but he did notice a bit of dishonesty.

"Yes," he replied, "does that bother you?"

John cleared his throat and looked away, "no, suppose it's none of my business."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied absently as he tried to place the other things he felt he was missing about John. 

"You're a detective of some sort?" John asked after a few silent moments.

"Yes, consulting detective," Sherlock replied, "only one in the world."

John smiled and it seemed to Sherlock that he'd seen that sort of smile before but he didn't know where, couldn't put his finger on it.

"So, clever lad like you must have a girlfriend," John said, chewing his lip and sipping the tea that the waitress brought.

Sherlock looked up at that. Desire, that was the look. He motioned for the waitress and ordered for John and himself instead of answering the question right away. It was bizarre, having desire pointed at him. Unusual but not unprecedented.

"So you do, have a girlfriend?" John asked once the food was in front of them.

"Not really my area," Sherlock replied as he looked for the hot peppers in his food and set them aside.

"Oh," John said, slight upturn of the lip, "so, um, boyfriend then? Which is fine by the way."

"I know it's fine!" Sherlock replied shortly.

John chewed for a moment and looked down at his plate, "so you've a boyfriend."

"No," Sherlock replied with less energy.

"So you're single, like me," John replied, taking a bite of his food and watching Sherlock with great curiosity.

"Listen John, we've just met but I need you to know that while I find it flattering-" Sherlock began.

"No, no I wasn't...I didn't mean to give the impression-" John tried clumsily, looking like he might choke.

"I consider myself married to my work," Sherlock finished.

"Right. Okay," John replied. 

Sherlock sat back in his seat and breathed deeply. He really didn't want to say that but he had no other choice, John was getting too close before he even had the chance to figure him out.

"Are you by any chance looking for a flat mate?" Sherlock asked after a while.

John looked up and nearly beamed, "how did you know?"

"You wear smart clothes, besides the jumpers, but all of them are worn. Your one expensive item was a hand-me-down from a sibling. You're eating exactly half of your meal to save the other half for lunch tomorrow and you've been using two different brands of shampoo mixed together because you didn't want to toss out what little was left from the old bottle," Sherlock replied quickly.

John held his breath for a moment and then let it out in a huge sigh, "yeah. Do you know anyone looking to share?"

"I've got an open room in my flat. You should come by," Sherlock said, trying not to be pulled into John's eyes and the way they crinkled around the edges because there was something, still something, he couldn't place.

_____

"It's a lot bigger than I thought," John said as he walked into the flat and looked around.

"The fireplace works," Sherlock said, walking to sit on the sofa in what he hoped seemed a relaxed manner.

In truth Sherlock's mind was running laps. He was watching John carefully, waiting patiently for him say something that would give himself away as...Christ, who knew? What in god's name was he hiding?

"It's a bit...full," John said as he turned around.

Sherlock shot to his feet and began going through boxes and pushing papers aside. He got a smile out of John when he stuck a hunting knife through a stack of bills and went back to sink into the couch again. He was about to ask whether John wanted to see the upstairs bedroom when the front door swung open and Lestrade walked in.

"There's a...wait, aren't you," the detective inspector began.

"Yes, John, from the crime scene," Sherlock said quickly, and when Greg couldn't seem to pull his thoughts together, "you can recognise a man you met hours ago, congratulations. Now, why are you in my flat?"

Greg cleared his throat and looked back over to the sofa with a pinched expression.

"Two children," he said.

Sherlock stood at once and slipped into his greatcoat. John watched him move and was left on the landing as the two men moved down the stairs.

"How long have they been missing?" Sherlock asked.

"We don't know," Greg admitted.

Sherlock stopped where he was and turned.

"You're a medic," he said to John, "what's more, you're a doctor. Seen a few injuries, had to give families bad news."

"Yes, and yes," John replied, gripping his cane tightly.

"More than a bit of trouble overseas as well. Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked, sincerely believing the hope in his voice wasn't horribly obvious.

"Oh, God yes," John said with a grin.

"Well, then what are you waiting for?" Sherlock said playfully.

It occurred to Lestrade that he was actually seeing the rare mating dance of the Holmes'. He shook it off quickly and walked out the front door as Sherlock continued to preen.

_____

"I want to see my mummy," Macy said weakly as John pulled her into his arms.

"Yeah, love, we're going to her now," John said soothingly.

She rested her face against John's neck and Sherlock thought absently that the skin there was probably rough and warm. Strange thought, that. He decided to put it from his mind and collect the other child. The boy...whatever his name was.

"Come along," he said, holding his hand out impatiently.

The warm look that passed across John's face was worth the clammy skin of the small hand in his, he knew it would be worth more. He straightened his back and led the boy out into the street, John walking behind him with the girl. Sally was standing on the kerb frowning at the bizarre spectacle the two of them made up, well, four, the children should count, shouldn't they?

John directed Sherlock towards the waiting ambulance and settled the children in while Greg came over to ask Sherlock more of the specifics. Even he seemed to be put off by the sight of the boy's small hand in Sherlock's.

"So, how did the man get knocked out?" he asked as they left the boy with John and moved to the middle of the road.

"He was threatening the children's lives. I knocked him over the head with a paperweight," Sherlock lied.

"And they'll corroborate that, will they?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.

"Well, you know children, horrendous witnesses. They might even tell you the doctor did it. Impossible to get them to sit still on the stand as well-" Sherlock began.

"Yeah, I get the idea," Lestrade said quietly, "I suppose you owe him one."

"Not sure what you mean," Sherlock said flatly as he looked over to see John brushing a stray curl from the little girl's eyes and squeezing the boy's hand. 

The domesticity of the scene shouldn't have done anything for him, he'd witnessed it multiple times before after all, but it did. It did...something. Something he quickly pushed away.

"Who the hell is he?" Anderson asked, bludgeoning his way into the conversation as always.

"He's a medic," Sherlock replied quickly.

"Yeah, okay, but he didn't come with the-" he began distrustfully.

"He's with me. He's my assistant," Sherlock said quickly, cutting him off before he could say anything more.

"How do YOU get an assistant? Did you kidnap him?" Sally asked with a snort, coming up beside them.

"Sally!" Greg reprimanded, bad taste and all.

She shut up and walked away, mumbling something about regulations on the way. Sherlock ignored her completely and continued watching the doctor with the children. He only broke from the daze when the medic actually on duty put her hand on John's shoulder. He cleared the distance in seconds.

"John," he interrupted, "if you're done here we should be getting home."

John looked up and nodded quickly before saying goodbye to the overly tactile harlot and following Sherlock to the street to catch a cab.

"Shouldn't we be filling out paperwork?" he asked as they drove towards Baker Street.

"Lestrade has more than enough information to go on. I'm sure we'll have to sign something come tomorrow but we really shouldn't give them more help than they need or else they'll grow dependent on...what?" Sherlock asked as he saw John smiling at him.

"Nothing, sorry," John said, turning away.

"What you did back there," Sherlock said, referring to John knocking the kidnapper unconscious as he tried to drag Sherlock from the building, "that was, well, that was good."

John cleared his throat and looked out the window, "will I be brought in?"

"I told them it was me," Sherlock admitted, not sure why he'd been so protective over someone he barely knew.

"Oh," John replied, honestly surprised.

They spent the rest of the ride in silence with each man wondering what the other was thinking.


	3. The British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updating this story and changing it a bit. Exciting things to come. A chapter every other day or so. Enjoy!

When they arrived at Baker Street and made it up the stairs it occurred to John that he was not only exhausted, but very much not in his own home. Sherlock didn't seem to notice the problem and went to make them tea as John stood awkwardly in the entryway.

"I should probably go," John said as Sherlock flitted about in the kitchen.

"Go?" Sherlock asked absently.

"Yes, go. As in home," John replied with a small smile.

Sherlock's head shot up as though it had finally dawned on him what John was saying and he turned with a sour look on his face.

"Home," Sherlock replied, taking a few steps forward. "As in not here."

"Not yet," John said. "I'd like to move in, though. If the offer still stands."

Sherlock made a funny face, eyes squinting, before grinning a bit and nodding.

"You'll be back tomorrow," Sherlock said, a statement more than a question.

"Have the day off," John said. "Suppose it would be a good day to move."

"Suppose it would," Sherlock agreed. "I'll be home."

"Okay," John replied with a large grin. "Well, goodnight, Sherlock."

"John," Sherlock murmured as John tapped his cane twice and left.

Sherlock stood still until the heard the door to the street close and then ran to look out the window as John walked out to hail a cab. It was a bit painful seeing how long it took a cab to pull up. The pain turned into all out anger when the cab Sherlock thought meant for John kept on its way and shiny black sedan rolled up in its place.

He reached into his pocket for his mobile and tapped out an angry note to Mycroft before flopping onto the sofa face first and cursing aloud. Mycroft always ruined everything.

_____

The woman in the back of the sedan caught John's eye and he bent to see what she wanted when the car stopped in front of him. 

"Dr Watson," she said, the moniker making John's blood go cold, "please get into the car."

"And why should I do that?" John asked a bit defiantly.

"Because you've killed a cabby, the head of the Lotus gang and three henchmen in the last month and my employer has it all on video," the woman said without once looking up from her mobile.

John took a moment to look up at the window of 221b before slipping into the back of the sedan with a clench of his fist. It made him even angrier when the woman still refused to look up from her mobile as the car pulled away from the kerb.

"And who is your employer?" John asked as they wound their was out of the city, the fact that they were doing so not lost on him.

The woman looked up at him with a pitying smile. "You'll see soon enough, John."

John chewed the inside of his cheek at the way she said his name and looked out the window, wondering if it was that Detective Inspector he'd met earlier, Lestrade or something. He didn't seem particularly cloak and dagger though and he wasn't sure how he would be able to afford a car this nice and an assistant on that pay. He pushed the thought aside and focussed on what he knew. It didn't get him any closer.

Soon enough they were pulling off the main road and onto a muddy underpass near the edge of town. John had grown up on Bond and mobster movies and had a feeling whomever was summoning him had as well. This was no place to hold a meeting.

The sedan came to a stop and the woman slipped from it before John could say anything and came around the car to open the door for him. He frowned at her and got out, following her into a dark alcove and staring at a posh man in a three piece suit. The man used the tip of his umbrella to push muck from the bottom of his shoe and stared daggers at the offending stuff. When he looked up he gave John a slimy smile and John's stomach clenched.

"Ah, Dr Watson. So glad to finally meet you," he purred.

"Wish I could say the same," John replied, folding his hands behind his back and refusing the hand proffered.

The man's lip curled at the move and he looked down at a file in his hand.

"I've been watching you, you know," he said.

"I'd gathered as much, what with the threats and kidnapping," John shot back.

This seemed to ruffle the man and he honestly looked a bit embarrassed for a fraction of a second.

"I wouldn't call it kidnapping," he said. "Just as you wouldn't call what you've done murder. More of a means to an end. Your end was keeping Sherlock Holmes safe, mine happens to be the same."

That made something click in John's head and he took a step forward.

"You approve of my actions?" he asked.

"Not only do I approve of them, Dr Watson, I would like to offer you a deal," the man said with a wicked grin.

"I don't know if it's good practice to agree to deals with men like you," John said.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice. It's the deal or prison," the man replied quickly. "Take your pick."

"What are the conditions?" John asked.

"First I'll need you to quit your job. Protecting Sherlock will be full time. I'll pay you a fair price to be his bodyguard. The fee and my silence should be enough to appease you."

"And what's the catch?" John asked.

The man smiled and nodded slightly.

"The catch," he said, "is that Sherlock mustn't know you're in my employ. We have a rather chequered past and I don't think he'd appreciate knowing I have anything to do with it. You'll simply be there when he needs you and do your job. I'm sure you'll be up to the task."

"And what about when he notices I've quit my job?" John asked, knowing that wouldn't slip by the genius.

"I'm sure you'll come up with some excuse. Put in your resignation, Dr Watson. You're working for the British government again," the man said smoothly.

John all but gaped as he was handed a card and left to stand in the near dark by himself. When he finally picked his jaw up off the ground he looked up to find the woman from the car holding his cane. He took it and quickly climbed back into the sedan, fingers running over the card in his pocket and mind chasing itself in circles.


	4. That Was...Not Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft heads home and John can't sleep.

Mycroft walked through the door to the bedroom and was surprised to find Greg up reading in bed, it was late, after all. The surprise must have shown on his face because when Greg looked at him over his reading glasses it wasn't a simple hello that he gave but a stare that said he knew Mycroft was up to something.

'If this man ever decided to work for an opposing government we would be sunk', Mycroft thought, still amazed that the man could see through him.

"What havoc have you been spreading?" Greg asked as he took off his glasses and set the book to lay on the bedside table.

"I've done nothing outside the norm," Mycroft lied.

Greg raised an eyebrow and Mycroft rolled his eyes before sitting on the bed to remove his shoes.

"I have a new employee," he said flatly, not wishing to give any more information than he had to.

"And who is it that will be angry at that? It's got to be someone, going by the look you gave me when you walked in. Oh, Jesus, please say it isn't Sherlock. He's been bad enough this week and now we're searching for some vigilante and Sherlock has a new friend and I just-" Greg began, running a hand through his hair and leaning back against the headboard.

"About the vigilante," Mycroft began.

"Oh. Oh, Myc, no," Greg whined. "Please tell me you didn't bloody HIRE a man I'm currently trying to arrest!"

"Sherlock will be the one that's upset over my new...acquisition," Mycroft replied, refusing to comment on what Greg had just said.

Greg looked up with wide eyes. "The medic? Christ, you've got to be kidding me! What kind of medic goes around killing people?"

"What kind of medic goes around killing people who..." Mycroft said as he removed his waistcoat, letting the last word linger so Greg knew he was supposed to fill in the blank.

"The people he killed were...oh. Oh, he was protecting Sherlock? But this was before they met!" Lestrade said, looking almost adorable in his confusion.

"As Mrs Hudson said, Sherlock has an admirer," Mycroft replied smoothly.  
_____

There was nothing on the card but a number. The last time John had signed up to work for the government, queen and country as he was, it had involved a lot more paperwork and a recruiting office that stank of cigarettes and something he could still smell every once in a while late at night. 

The more he thought of it the more it seemed utterly ridiculous. What proof did he really have that anything that man said was true? He didn't even give him his name. It was too strange to believe.

But he knew. God, he knew about the bodies. 

John had thought he'd been so bloody careful. Even Sherlock Holmes himself didn't know what he was. Sherlock Holmes. Oh, God, if he knew.

He'd said yes to moving in before thinking about it at all, in truth. He supposed he would just try to tag along like he had the night before. Maybe if he got Sherlock to trust him enough he wouldn't have to worry about sneaking around. Maybe he would let him come on all his cases and he'd get to see how that amazing brain worked. 

Christ, just talking to him had been something else. The man was a stubborn brat but he was entertaining as hell.

John decided he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep and figured three o'clock wasn't really too early to get out of bed. He rolled onto his side and sat up carefully, his left side still hurting from the fight the evening before. He groaned and went to have a cuppa and check on Sherlock's blog, the walk to the kitchenette making him feel a bit stiff. 

'Even stiff is an improvement, though,' he thought as he glanced at his cane where it rested by the door. He hadn't needed it since the night before and he had a bad feeling about that. The only things that made him able to walk without it were narcotics, with little success, and danger. He knew he had nothing in his system, so danger it was.

He supposed it might be the idea of continuing what he'd thought of as his mission, something he'd taken on after seeing Sherlock Holmes on the telly for the first time and realising he wanted to speak with him, and then there he was, ending up killing a man and not getting to speak a word but let's forget that failure. If the man from the night before was to be believed he had the go ahead to continue without worrying about the police. Whether that was true or not depended on whether the man was who he said (well, sort of) he was. Which, he reminded himself, was impossible. It simply wasn't the way the government worked.

He poured the water, which had boiled while his mind was elsewhere, over his tea bag and went to sit at his desk and open his laptop. It blinked on and cast a bluish glow as his bank account opened. He really shouldn't have such important information as his homepage but all anyone could do from it was look at his balance and that was-

Ten thousand pounds. That was...not right.

John exited the main page and went back again, logging in so quickly he messed up the password twice before the balance was shown again. He blinked and then pinched the skin on his right thigh very hard.

£10,243.23

The laugh that left him was high pitched and fevered before he closed the laptop and walked out his front door in nothing but a pair of pants and a thin dressing gown.


	5. I Need An Assistant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after John gets kidnapped by Mycroft.

John paced in the hallway for approximately ten minutes before he was able to go back into his flat. The laptop sat open, the balance remaining the same, and he went to take a shower. 

_____

Sherlock didn't get a response to the angry text he sent his brother and the whole situation, someone actually wanting to be around him having to deal with his brother, was making him more anxious than he'd been in years.

He liked to pretend that he didn't get anxious, the whole 'high functioning sociopath' thing alluding to that, but it wasn't true. The truth was that he had a perfectly sized, functioning amygdala and felt fear and anxiety as much as anyone else. 

At a young age he learned to hide any outward signs that he had emotions, often spending whole days being teased and tortured by classmates, and found it a quite useful trick in his current occupation. He liked to think that his placid nature was his most perfect disguise. The truth was, ask anyone who worked with him, that he was less placid and more prickly. 

He had emotions, intense emotions. Rage and disappointment and boredom being the most commonly shown, shown out loud in front of crowds and even louder on his sofa at home. There was also happiness, his happiness almost always intense if short lived. The problem with it was that he seemed to be happy over things normal people wouldn't think one should; diving into skips and peeling skin back from dead bodies. Not normal, he knew.

Right now he was slipping from anger into a dark malaise, the many hours spent anxious over his brother's actions leading to an exhaustion he felt bone deep. He flung himself on the sofa and let out a loud groan. 

All of his experiments were done and he wouldn't be able to get any new body parts before six o'clock unless he used a hacksaw on a tourist. 

After less than three minutes of breathing against the cloth and polyfil of one of the sofa cushions he stood and went to slip from his clothes and into the shower, no longer willing to put up with being bored and alone with his mind. The upside was that there wouldn't be many people at any of the coffee shops that were open at three thirty in the morning.

_____

John slipped under the hot spray of the shower and closed his eyes as he scrubbed his hands through his hair and tried not to have a panic attack. Trying not to only worked one tenth of the time but it seemed to be working just then, something for which he was eternally grateful. He soaped up quickly and washed his hair and was out and shaving in a few minutes, doing it by feel to avoid the look he might find in the mirror if he wiped away the condensation.

After brushing his teeth and putting on deodorant he slipped on a white undershirt and buttoned a blue checked shirt then stepped into his old denims, the feel of them still a bit startling after years of fatigues, and buttoned them carefully. Socks, shoes, coat, and a touch to his Browning once before leaving it in his desk, and he was out the door. 

It took him exactly twenty three steps and one civilian accidentally bumping into him before he was back in his flat tucking his gun into his waistband and picking up his cane.

His mobile buzzed and he pulled it from his jacket as he locked up once again.

GOOD IDEA

He stared at the screen and felt his stomach drop before looking across the street at the CCTV camera. It panned away from him quickly and he bit the inside of his lip. His mobile buzzed again.

DONT LOOK SO FRIGHTENED, DOCTOR WATSON 

He tapped out a quick response and started walking down the street to the coffee shop.

Across town Mycroft's third mobile buzzed in his hand and he made sure he was alone before smiling a bit at what was there.

THIS ISN'T FRIGHTENED. THIS IS WARY. JW 

_____

Sherlock was arguing with the man behind the counter when John walked into the small cafe. The barista looked about ready to hit Sherlock and John shook his head before going to join him.

"Something the matter?" he asked smoothly.

Sherlock spun, ready to yell at whomever the barista had summoned and gawped at John for a second before gathering himself and nodding curtly, his lips back in a grim line.

"This idiot wants to tell me the coffee he made me is Colombian when it clearly isn't," Sherlock said.

John took the cup from his hand and sipped it carefully. Sherlock crossed his arms and waited for a reaction.

"Tastes fine. I'll take this one. Make him another and I'll pay for it," John said.

The barista sighed and nodded gratefully before turning to do just that.

"Nightmares," Sherlock said, tapping his fingers on the counter quickly. "How long have you been awake?"

"Since three," John replied with a small smile. "You?"

"Never went to bed," Sherlock admitted.

The barista brought him the new coffee and he and John held their breath while Sherlock tasted it. Whether he was satisfied with getting a new one, and therefore his way, or he really thought it was better neither of the three knew. John simply paid and followed him to a seat outside, pulling his jacket close around him tightly and setting his cane beside the table.

"You don't need the cane," Sherlock said after a few moments of watching the street with John.

"It comes in handy," John lied.

"You hate it," Sherlock said quickly.

John's mouth opened and then turned into a smile before he looked away from Sherlock and back to the moving van across the street.

"You're right. I do hate it," he said. "Tell me why I'm still carrying it around."

Sherlock sipped his coffee and eyed him for a second before speaking. No one ever asked him to deduce them unless they thought he couldn't. Strange.

"You're afraid if you go out without it you'll need it. It's become a sort of talisman. The pain, and the limp that follows, is psychosomatic. Just like the tremor in your dominant hand," Sherlock replied.

John's face fell and Sherlock was concerned for a second that he was angry.

"So what do I do?" John asked quietly.

"You need excitement," Sherlock replied. "And I need an assistant."

John smiled but continued to watch the truck across the street. Sherlock looked him over for a long while before going back to his coffee, his hand clutching the bench next to John's.


	6. This Is Meddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock head back to 221b and Mycroft and Greg have a talk on the way to work.

By five o'clock the two men had made it back to Baker Street, walking there without exchanging a word about where they were going, and were upstairs drinking tea by the fire. Sherlock was explaining exactly how he knew that the first coffee hadn't been Colombian and John was stifling a laugh.

"Coffee is serious business," Sherlock said, looking a bit hurt.

"As is ash," John teased.

Sherlock's head cocked to the side and he peered at John as the man became suddenly more sobered and sipped his tea.

"Have you been reading my website?" Sherlock asked, eyes flitting between John's mouth and his eyes.

"I, um, looked you up last night," John said, stumbling over the lie.

Sherlock smiled and it was a bit innocent, the way his eyes crinkled and he looked suddenly very keen.

"What did you think?" he asked, moving from where he was leaning against the back of a chair and closer to the fire and therefore John.

"Well," John began, thinking of what to say to not give anything more away. "It would be nice if you wrote up some of your cases."

Sherlock flapped his hand and seemed to lose all interest.

"You sound just like my 'admirer'," Sherlock said dismissively.

John bit his tongue, quite literally, before attempting a tone he hoped was casual. "Admirer?"

"Mmm. Stalker more like. Someone keeps following me around with a gun and commenting on my blog. The last thing I need is a nanny," Sherlock replied, walking to look out the window.

"He's that bad, is he?" John asked, stomach twisting into knots.

"He. Well, yes, statistically it would be a man," Sherlock murmured to himself, and then a bit louder, "He makes it impossible for me to get information. Thinks he's doing me a favor by keeping me safe."

John felt sick. He knew Sherlock didn't really want his help but he hadn't realised how much he was getting in the way. It wasn't as though he was trying to.

"Maybe he just doesn't understand that he's hurting the cases," John said weakly.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said. "Now I've got you."

John smiled at that and took a sip of his tea as Sherlock turned to look him up and down.

"I assume you have the identifying marks filed off of your gun," Sherlock said, acting as though it weren't a strange thing to say. "May I hold it?"

John sputtered and his hand went to his waistband in a clear giveaway.

"I don't-" he began.

Sherlock smiled and took a step towards him, hand out, palm up.

"I know you have it with you," he said. "There's no use in denying it."

"How-how do I know you won't turn me in?" John asked, already pulling the gun out, body ignoring the hesitation in his voice. "Or shoot me for that matter?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "If I wanted to kill you I would have poisoned your tea."

John looked warily into the cup as Sherlock took the gun from his grasp.

"I didn't," Sherlock added.

John nodded and looked to where Sherlock's hands were on the gun. He was relieved to see that his finger wasn't on the trigger and he hadn't taken the safety off. He watched the man turn it over and then close his eyes as he lifted it to his nose and took a deep breath. The picture it painted shouldn't have been erotic but lips like his that close to a phallic symbol was enough to give John pause.

"Okay, okay," John said nervously. "You can give it back now."

Sherlock huffed and handed it back over and then went to lay face down on the sofa.

_____

By the time Greg was ready for work Mycroft was done with his biggest meeting of the day and decided to walk him to the Yard. It wasn't an incredibly long walk, as their penthouse was centrally located, but at least they'd be able to talk on the way.

"So how have things gone with work today? I saw you on the CCTV cameras earlier," Greg said as they rode the elevator down to the lobby.

"All is fine. Just a little...housekeeping," Mycroft replied, pulling his coat tight around him at the early morning air.

"Is there anything I should worry about, with this vigilante?" Greg asked as they started their walk in earnest.

"No, he's harmless. Well, harmless until you have a gun on Sherlock," Mycroft replied. "And he'll keep it up. Of that I'm sure."

"Did you ask him if he wanted the job or did you just blackmail him?" Greg asked, reaching out and straightening Mycroft's scarf.

Mycroft stayed silent and Greg sighed loudly.

"You should have just told him he wouldn't be prosecuted," he said.

"He needs the money," Mycroft replied.

"And you're his mother now, are you? The fallout from this one is going to be monstrous. I hope you know that," Greg said as they rounded the corner and walked into their favorite cafe and got into line.

"He won't tell Sherlock," Mycroft replied, taking out his wallet. "I'd say he's got a bit of a crush."

"Sherlock will find out, you know he will, and when he does-" Greg started.

"Two coffee's to go, black," Mycroft interrupted, handing a few bills to the barista.

Greg lowered his voice and turned to look at Mycroft.

"This is meddling," he whispered. "You should have let them find each other. They were already going out to dinner together, Watson was practically moving in."

"I couldn't take the chance. You remember what happened last time he decided to get a flatmate," Mycroft said sternly. "That Wiggins fellow."

"Yes, but this one's a medic," Greg countered.

"A Doctor, and a soldier," Mycroft corrected. "He's too important to let my brother make his own decisions about him. You know how fickle he can be."

Greg rolled his eyes and picked up his coffee, following Mycroft back onto the street.

"Yes, and that isn't a family trait at all," he groused.

"I was smart enough to keep you around," Mycroft said with an upturn of his nose.

"Took you four years to even go out to dinner with me," Greg said with a small smile. "Well, outside of kidnapping."

"You were married," Mycroft said.

"For three of those years. I would have left her for you anyway," Greg replied.

"I know," Mycroft said.

"I love you," Greg replied.

"I know that as well," Mycroft said shortly as they turned the corner to stand in front of the Met.

"Say it, you bastard," Greg teased.

"I love you as well," Mycroft said, acquiescing as he always did to Greg's will. "Now go arrest someone. Just...not John Watson."

"Fine," Greg said dramatically. "You ruin all my fun."

Mycroft smiled for a fraction of a second and walked away.


End file.
